


On Top

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:25:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn Fabray is back. Santana Lopez is not going down without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Top

Title: On Top  
Pairing: Quinn Fabray/Santana Lopez  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: Speculation for Season 2?  
Summary: Quinn Fabray is back. Santana Lopez is not going down without a fight.  
A/N: We saw the spoiler pic. Our brains all did the same thing.

There is no way this is happening. Absolutely, undoubtedly, _no way_. Santana Lopez will take a lot of shit in this world—Puck choosing the second coming of Aretha over her to fuel his damaged ego, Finn clodhopping onto her feet in dance rehearsal, Smurfette buzzing in her ear over some _Wicked_ vs _RENT_ level bullshit—fine, okay, she’ll take it. She _has_ taken it. She has really grown a lot over the past year, she thinks, what with the not being a spy anymore and kind of, sort of coming to (she cringes) love Glee, and even Will Schuester doesn’t push her buttons quite the way he used to.

(That’s a lie.)

But this? This is just way beyond the bend. This has taken the bend and jerked it into a straight line, and Santana is not having it. No fucking way.

Dammit, she has _earned_ this. She has definitely put in the hours. Shadow hours, even--literally. The second the captaincy was open, Sylvester had her out of bed at 3 AM, running laps around Lima’s shoddier district while that woman-shaped psychosis followed in a golf cart. Santana has done _everything_ to feed the ego of the Beast, and what is she getting for all that blood and sweat?

The heralded return of the prodigal bitch.

Seriously, she’s supposed to be afraid of _Quinn Fabray_? Who does Juno think she’s kidding? She might have been scary enough in her heyday, but that time is _long_ past, and anyway, this is Santana. Santana hasn’t been afraid of Quinn even once in her entire life, not even when Quinn threatened to tell Mrs. Lopez about that whole shoplifting phase in third grade. In fact, though no one in this pathetic school seems to realize it, _Santana’s_ the one holding Quinn’s leash—and always has been.

Fuckin’ Fabray would have gotten _nowhere_ without Santana’s fists and curses backing her up.

And now she’s back, barely free of that infamous Beth-inspired tubbery, barely used to the hug of her Cheerio skirt. She’s back, and she thinks she can just jump right the hell back into the driver’s seat?

Uh uh.

Fuck that shit.

Santana’s not giving up without a fight.

At first, Quinn doesn’t seem to catch on; she waltzes back into the school, head held high, hands at her hips, orders resting languidly on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes meet Santana’s and she gives that old Fabray nod—the one that says, ‘Let’s do this shit, make some bitches pay. Enjoy my crumbs.’

Santana doesn’t _do_ crumbs anymore.

She glares back, fists curling at her sides, and only the very convenient placement of Puck’s hand on her ass is enough to distract from decking Quinn then and there. She settles for slapping a palm into the back of his head and stomping on his foot, barely satisfied when he grunts.

“Chill your shit, Lopez, I was just welcoming you back.”

“I’m welcome,” she mutters, seething. “I am very welcome. Touch my ass again, you’ll lose your dick.”

“Sheesh.” He rolls his eyes in a hearty attempt to mask fear. “Happy junior year. Crazy bitch.”

He’s right about that—Puck, for all his obnoxious behavior and macho bullshit, has that nasty tendency of _being_ right much of the time. She _is_ a crazy bitch. And this crazy bitch ain’t going down so easy, no matter _how_ instantly Quinn’s ass and abs seem to have swung back to perfection over the summer.

It isn’t that Santana’s worried about her own badass nature; she could take down half the hockey team if the reason behind it was right. The thing is, Quinn suddenly seems to be _everywhere_ at once, hovering around corners, making her totally crazy. The blonde is _inside_ Santana’s head, and that—that is kind of a small problem.

Only a small one. Santana is head fuckin’ Cheerio. She is strong, she is hot, and she is, above all other things, _crafty_.

Crafty, crazy bisexual bitches come out on top. It’s practically _law_. And she wouldn’t be stressing about it, if not for the fact that Quinn—seriously—seems to have procured a couple of doppelgangers. It’s the only explanation for the blonde’s sudden ability to…do the stupid shit she’s been doing all week.

She goes from smirking at Santana in the lunch line one minute to somehow _beating_ the Latina to the bathroom, leaning against the sink and smugly waving with a twitching of two fingers. In the space of thirty seconds, she manages to sidle from outside Santana’s Biology classroom (through the door of which she winks and blows a haughty kiss that sends Santana’s blood boiling) to the courtyard visible through the window. Where she sits with six other Cheerios— _Brittany_ included, Santana notes through red-hued rage—and just _laughs_.

That. Damn. Laugh.

She’s everywhere, and she’s confident, and beautiful, and Santana really wants to tie the girl to a chair and subject her to the toneless warbling she heard coming from Figgins’ office before Glee the other day.

She tries to settle for the smaller victories, reassuring herself that Sylvester isn’t going to strip her of captaincy unless she gets a damn solid reason. The woman is batshit crazy, but she’s not _stupid_ ; Quinn’s a liability, wildly unpredictable and hazardous to the overall health of the team. Santana is not. Santana, right now, is the safe bet.

And while this remains so, she will just have to get her kicks in in the little ways. After all, Santana Lopez is Top Dog—and that comes in more ways than just high-kicks and cheering the loudest.

Her genius is certainly a large factor to her overall perfection, and she’s suddenly determined to prove it. Like in Geometry, where she throws up a hand for the first time in two years and correctly answers the most difficult question the teacher’s got under his belt. She smirks at Quinn, who, two desks over, almost looks perplexed.

Except, two minutes later, _Quinn’s_ hand is in the air, lips delicately explaining the logic behind some stupid-ass proof. Santana scowls.

She tries again in French (hating all the while Figgins’ stupid ‘expand your language education’ rule), determinedly translating a whole page of text in record time. The teacher blinks at her, barely looking more intelligent than Schuester used to during Spanish. Santana crosses her arms over her chest and grins.

Before she can even really worship herself properly for being fucking brilliant, Quinn’s pushing back from her own table, standing gracefully and letting loose with a goddamn _poem_. A _poem_. In _French_.

Santana wants to jam a pencil in her eye.

Never mind. Her worth doesn’t lie in just her mind. In case it’s escaped the attention of anyone at all, Santana Lopez is kind of a tank. She may be slim, but she’s also built, a wicked athlete with bar-none gorgeous arms. She can prove exactly how strong and sexy she is in one go-round.

_During dodgeball._

They’re divided down the middle of the alphabet, which means Quinn’s stuck with the likes of that Hummel fairy, Artie’s wheelchair-bound ass, and—best of all— _Rachel Berry_ on her team. Santana, on the other hand, has got Puck and Matt; Puck, who happens to be exactly as strong as he looks, and Matt, who is something of a sniper-agent with a ball in his hands.

It’s a fuckin’ _deathmatch_.

Santana bullets through half the opposing side, grinning like a maniac every time Quinn’s brow ruffles in frustration. Systematically, her three-man team of badasses sink the ship known as _S.S. Loser_ (but kind of nicely, if only because Puck breaking Hummel’s noise wouldn’t exactly benefit the whole singing thing), until it’s just Quinn standing there on the other side of the court.

Santana hefts a red ball, grinning maliciously, shifting her weight from one sneaker to the other. She’s going to enjoy this. She’s going to savor it. She’s going to—

—watch in complete bafflement as Quinn catches Puck’s reckless throw, using it as a shield against Matt’s attempt, then nails Shaft in the gut before pile-driving a ball right into the side of Santana’s head.

And then she stands there. With that _stupid smile_. As Santana just stares.

Dear God, this is what it feels like to hate your best friend.

It continues like this, one day bleeding into the next. No matter where she goes, Quinn seems to be there; no matter what she does, Quinn seems to be a step ahead. Disproving her, dismantling her. A week ago, two weeks ago, walking through McKinley’s front doors, Santana was certain she would come out on top, no questions asked. Now, suddenly, Quinn is outdoing her in every way, outstripping her in every capacity except where the official title is concerned.

She’s starting to see the blonde in her dreams, always wearing that smug, holier-than-thou expression, always flashing those sickly-straight teeth and winking those long-lashed eyes. She’s having a hard time holding on to her patience, for sure, and even Brittany isn’t enough to keep her stable—probably because Brittany, too, seems to have fallen under Fabray’s evil spell. Though the dancer remains steadfast at Santana’s side, there is something in those familiar blue eyes the Latina does not at all like. Something reminiscent of a time pre-Puck, pre-ill-advised roll in the hay, pre-sonogram-and-bacon-cravings.

Brittany is already starting to slide back under Quinn’s thumb, and it makes Santana nauseous. Because Brittany? Is hers. Has always been hers, will always _be_ hers. But underneath that fact—or maybe, as the problem seems to be, stretched overtop it—lies the cold, stark reality.

Brittany remembers when Quinn was in charge.

And Brittany has no problem with going back to that place.

Without Brittany, Santana finds herself a wealth of fury and frustration. Her skin seems to hum with agitation, her brain buzzing without pause. She can’t hear anything else, can’t see anything more than Quinn’s smile, Quinn’s narrowed eyes, Quinn’s arched eyebrow.

Quinn is _everywhere_.

Really, she’s surprised it takes as long as it does for Santana to snap.

Since the start of all of this, she’s been waiting for something direct to happen—something less sneaky and more _forceful_. A coup, impossible to ignore, fast and hard and punishing. She’s been expecting Quinn to storm in, ponytail swishing around her shoulders, making demands and shoving Santana to kneel before her long, pale legs. She would know how to deal with that kind of situation, has exactly the right personality and the right mental tools to deride every inch of Quinn’s sad-ass attempt to clamber back to the top of the social heap.

This, though, this is just… _obnoxious_. Quinn is slowly, silently, painstakingly wearing away at Santana’s temper, and really, it’s—well, it’s working. She grits her teeth around the realization, relishing the metallic taste of ire against her molars. Quinn is working on her the way one might chip at a particularly solid wall; her sledgehammer might be tiny and pitiful, but given enough time and effort, results tend to show.

“Results” just happen to be coming in the form of, well…insanity.

As she flails like a madwoman, struggling out of Quinn’s rather-impressive headlock and aiming a punch in the direction of the blonde’s nose, Santana reflects on the moments that brought her to this point. Or, rather, the moment.

Singular.

Grating.

Quinn _spoke_.

Okay, whatever, Quinn does that. She kind of talks a lot, actually—not that she’s anywhere near on par with Motormouth Berry, but she’s a pretty vocal chick. And any fool knows she’s the biggest bitch this side of Santana, so no shock there. Santana’s actually not entirely certain the words were what did it anyway.

She thinks it was probably more of the _tone_.

That stupid. Wrenching. Tone.

She was just standing at her locker, minding her own damn business—which Quinn ought to have been damn grateful for, because the temptation to race down the hall and beat the blonde senseless with her Biology textbook has been ever-present for days now—when she felt it. The cool rush of air against her ear. The creepy, heady pressure of a body just behind her own. Normally, it would be Brittany standing there, placing a cheery kiss on the back of Santana’s neck as only Brittany is allowed to greet her. Normally, she would be pleased.

She was not pleased.

It was not Brittany.  
 _  
Fucking Quinn._

Refusing to turn—refusing to give the blonde the _satisfaction_ —Santana stood as still as she knew how, operating under the _Jurassic Park_ -inspired hope that the girl wouldn’t see her if she did not move. Instead of heeding her wishes and backing away without a word, Quinn pressed ever-closer, her body molding threateningly against Santana’s back.

“Hey Lopez,” she heard softly, “got a secret for you.”

“Fuck off, Fabray,” she sneered. That familiar, Satanic chuckle rumbled through to her spine; Santana scowled into the depths of her locker.

Lips brushed the shell of her ear, and though Santana couldn’t see it, she felt the weight of Quinn’s arrogant smile. “I hope you’ve enjoyed your captaincy,” the blonde hissed, more air than words. “You know it isn’t going to last.”

It was petty.

It was petty, and childish, and _not_ worth getting riled up over.

She _could_ have been the bigger woman.

All the same, in the next heartbeat, Santana turned on her heel, smiled sweetly, and punched Quinn in the face.

And now they’re here: scrabbling against each other in the middle of the hallway, fingernails wrenching at identical uniforms, screaming unintelligible phrases for the world to hear. A crowd has surrounded them—big surprise; everyone, it seems, loves the cliché of a girl-fight—but Santana can’t see a thing except blonde hair, bloody nose, bitchy expression.

In that order.

She shoves at Quinn’s shoulders, doing her very best to climb on top of the taller girl and pound her head relentlessly into the tile. Quinn’s strength isn’t exactly Goliath-level, but it’s enough to keep Santana at bay, much to the Latina’s displeasure. She growls deep in her throat, thrashing in an attempt to at least get her hands around Quinn’s skinny little neck. Just a few minutes of _squeezing_ , and this shit can be _done_ with—

It’s about at that point when a strong pair of hands wrap around her middle, dragging her bodily off of the squirming, kicking blonde. Puck hauls her a few feet away from the lockers, throwing her securely into Brittany’s waiting arms when he feels they’ve moved a hearty enough distance from the violence. Across the hall, Quinn is being yanked unceremoniously to her feet by Mike and Tina as Rachel Berry flutters near, exclaiming over the thin trickle of red seeping onto the Cheerio’s lip.

Santana glowers, wanting nothing more than to lunge right back and finish what she started, but Brittany holds her close. She closes her eyes, focuses her energy on the rise and fall of the girl’s chest, tries to regain an ounce of stability. She feels the weight of Brittany’s hand on her back, the force of that blue-eyed, baffled stare.

“S, what are you _doing_?” Brittany stage-whispers. Santana flinches.

She doesn’t know. She has absolutely no idea. For a second there—glorious and awesome as it felt—she completely lost track of her own sanity. And now she’s back, staring blankly across the hall as Quinn nudges Rachel away with a gentle elbow and brushes the backs of her fingertips across her mouth. Hazel eyes capture hers, narrowed suspect challenge. Santana frowns.

“I’m gonna…” _Go_ , she finishes silently, pulling away from Brittany’s body. Her best friend regards her nervously, and Santana senses something there. Not disgust so much as disappointment; her stomach clenches against it, frustration bubbling up again. To disappoint Brittany is to unmake something unbearably beautiful. Wordlessly, she smiles a tight smile and catches one of those long, nimble hands, squeezing it softly.

“I’m fine,” she says in a low voice, meant only for those ears. Far from brightening, Brittany bites her lip thoughtfully and shakes her head.

“You’re _fighting_ ,” she replies, looking for all the world like a lost puppy. Santana squeezes again.

“We’ll be fine,” she promises, stepping close and brushing her mouth across Brittany’s cheekbone. Blue eyes flare hopefully.

“Talk to Quinn?”

Aggravation nestles close against Santana’s heart; she takes a breath to still its pitter-pattering momentum and forces another smile. “I’ll work on it. Later, B. Need to calm down first, right?”

Apparently satisfied, the blonde nods. Santana watches her skip away, marginally less buoyant than usual, and rubs her forehead tiredly.

This is all getting way out of hand. Holding an all-out _smackdown_ with Q in the middle of the school day? God help her when—not if, there is no question that this will get around—Sylvester hears about the situation. They’ll be running suicides until their heels bleed.

Although she just promised Brittany she’d do something to resolve this, the time is certainly not now. Her blood is still humming with the thrill of slamming a thick blonde ponytail into the ground, her fingers itching to wrap around that pale neck again. She needs to get out of here, before Puck stops looking at her so warily, distracted as he inevitably will be by the first nice rack that saunters by. It’s true that there’s a whole array of Gleeks standing between herself and Fabray right now, but any idiot knows she could blow past them in a heartbeat. Best to remove herself entirely.

The library is not the ideal place to go—not because it’s where the books live, because Santana actually really likes reading (tell _no one_ ), but rather because she’s still chock-full of restless energy. And, in the library? There is distressingly little to beat upon.

The gym would’ve been smarter, but there’s that whole class thing to worry about, and at least the librarian is half-blind and more than a little senile. Santana can curl up in the stacks, resisting every temptation to put her foot through a desk, and maybe try some of that meditation bullshit Artie’s been talking her ear off about at Glee. She doubts it’ll do a damn thing, but hey: has to be better than bloodying her knuckles on an All-American luxury jawline.

 _Delightful_ though that truly had been.

She hunches over a table in the back, eyes fixed on a blank notebook, and tries to focus. There has to be a way here, a more graceful plan that involves less obvious brutality and more carefully-wrought derision. Quinn’s been brought down from her high horse before; it can’t be _that_ difficult to do it again. Granted, Santana doesn’t think the girl will be getting herself knocked up again anytime soon, but the vulnerability is likely still present. She’s just got to find the right button—

“S.”

 _Or I could save myself the trouble, kill her now, and hide her body in with the Conrad section. No one reads_ Heart of Darkness _anymore anyway._

She lifts her eyes slowly, regulating her breathing so as not to go all _Mean Girls_ over this table. Quinn stands before her, split lip shining like a champion’s beacon, eyes firm. Santana allows herself one brief, gleaming moment to imagine casting an encyclopedia at the girl’s head, then sighs.

“What do you want?”

Quinn shrugs, shifting like she wants to sit in the nearest open chair. Santana silently dares her to; she’s got one foot propped on the rungs of said seating option, all too pleased with the notion of slamming it backwards and sending the blonde tumbling.

Fortunately for Quinn, the moment is too awkward; she settles for leaning down, palms flat on the table, and looking Santana in the eye. “You hit me,” she says succinctly. Santana’s eyes roll instinctively.

“It’s not like it was the first time, you big baby.”

“You hit me _for no reason_ ,” Quinn retorts, fingers arching until her nails dig into the tabletop. Santana gapes at her.

“No reason?” she repeats. “Every reason! You’re being a huge bitch!”

“And this is different…how?” Quinn asks haughtily, coiling a lock of perfect blonde hair around one finger and twirling. Santana shakes her head.

“Well, you—I—um.”

She’s not speechless often, but Quinn’s got—much as she loathes to admit it—a persuasive enough point. This _isn’t_ different, not really; Quinn has always been the biggest bitch in the world, what with the lying and the manipulating and the constant teasing without adding pleasing. It’s her _thing_ , and honestly, it’s the reason she and Santana have always gotten along so well. Quinn’s bitchery is hands-down the easiest thing to respect about her.

The only thing about it is, it’s been almost a _year_ since Santana has seen this side, good ol’ Queen Bee Fabray, and— _well shit_ —she seems to have kind of forgotten it. Not _forgotten_ , literally, as in losing track of all those fine memories, but…it’s been so long since Quinn has been all that she can be that Santana has stopped believing in the other girl’s potential.

And now here she is, stone-eyed, eyebrow cocked, looking utterly amazed that Santana is actually citing bitchdom as cause for snapping.

It’s rare as hell, but Santana Lopez kind of feels like an idiot.

Quinn continues to stand there, impatient, and Santana scowls. This isn’t right; she’s at the top of the ladder, for God’s sake, not some lapdog made to feel like a child. She’s the best, no question’s asked, and she intends to remain that way. Who cares if Fabray’s back in action?

She’s not giving this up for the world.

“Did you want me to say I’m sorry?” Santana sneers, leaning back in her chair and crossing her legs. Quinn’s gaze flickers for a second, darting between face and skirt, and Santana nearly grins. She’s still got this. _Quinn’s_ the one out of practice—Santana’s been filling the role seamlessly since childhood. No gaps. No moments of weakness. No tear-filled nights spent curled around a second life.

Santana is strong. Has always been strong. Will always be strong.

Quinn is not.

“Or did you want another go-round?” she presses on, rolling her head back on her neck to keep Quinn within her field of vision as the blonde steps closer. “Maybe with props this time? I’m interested to see what kind of concussion a chair might lead to.”

Quinn shakes her head, a disgusted little smile playing around the edges of her lips. “You know, Lopez, I don’t think people tell you this nearly often enough.” She pauses, halting beside Santana’s chair, smoothing the front of her uniform reflexively and leaning in.

“You’re an idiot.”

If she expects the words to sting, she’s sorely mistaken. Quinn Fabray’s opinion means nothing. _Has_ meant nothing since she vanished into her own little world last fall, burrowed away from Santana and Brittany and everything that has counted since middle school. Santana’s eyes narrow.

“At least I know how to get what I want. And keep it.”

Unexpectedly, Quinn grins. “That’s the best you’ve got? You’re slipping, S. Going soft.”

“You wish,” Santana growls. In the back of her mind, she snaps at herself to keep a handle on it, to not let Quinn rope her in with old tricks. The back of her mind is pretty damn smart, but her emotions are already running away with her. She can feel it in the tension of her fists, the cramp in her thighs, the mad urge to grab Quinn by the face and bring a knee up into that lovely little nose—

“You _are_ ,” Quinn crows, clearly oblivious to how close she is to desperately requiring plastic surgery. “I mean, those punches back there? I’m kind of ashamed. _Berry_ could do better.”

“I was warming up,” Santana warns. “Consider me warmed.”

“I consider you last week’s news, Lopez,” Quinn taunts. “Last year’s, even. You may have dug your dirty little heels into my back to climb to the top, but I promise you: that’s over with now. I’m back, sweetheart. I’m back, and I am taking what is mine.”

Somewhere deep inside, it registers that Santana has missed this fervently. How many times did she lay beside Brittany, grumbling over Quinn’s new-found charitable personality? How many times did she mutter that Quinn needed to get her act together, pull her badassery back from the brink of destruction, lose the kid and come back to their ever-unholy ways?

And now, it appears that Quinn has. Santana thinks there really must be something to that whole “be careful what you wish for” crap.

“I’ve kicked your ass before, Fabray,” she threatens, “and I will absolutely do it again. Give me one reason.”

Quinn leans forward, placing a foot on the chair and smirking like the whole armada of heaven is backing her. “I’m looking forward to it,” she hisses, flashing those creepily-neat rows of blinding teeth. The warmth of her leg nudges up against Santana’s, the curves of her just-back-from-babymakin’ body arched dangerously close. It's all it takes.

Santana snaps.

Again.

She’s on her feet, grabbing for Quinn’s uniform with the full intent of ripping it off the other girl. Quinn reels forward with the momentum, swiping as though she thinks she’s going to get Santana into another headlock; Santana swings her around, ducking the arm aimed for her neck, and forcibly pins Quinn to the table.

Quinn glares up at her, chest heaving. Her back is bent over Santana’s unused notebook, tan fists wrinkling the front of her top as Santana sets her feete firmly between her spread legs. If anyone could see them, it would probably look pretty bad.

But not nearly as bad, Santana thinks furiously, as it’s going to.

Murdering the former captain of the cheerleading squad is going to suck in the long run, but hot _damn_ , is it going to be satisfying.

She feels the warmth of Quinn under her hands, the panting rage easing up through cotton as the blonde struggles against her. Strong legs flex on either side of Santana’s hips as Quinn bucks her whole body forward and up, like she thinks she’s going to dislodge the darker girl by shock alone.

“Pathetic,” Santana sneers, tightening her grip and holding Quinn down all the harder. The blonde scowls.

“This isn’t winning, Santana. This is temporary caging. Let me up.”

“Fuck that,” Santana snaps smoothly, slamming the blonde back down when she makes another bid for freedom. “You don’t scare me, Fabray. You’re a miserable shadow of your former bitch, whether you like it or not. You don’t matter anymore. Get it through that thick—“

Quinn bucks again, hips arching sharply into Santana’s lower half; surprised despite herself, Santana grunts.

“Weak move, Q,” she breathes. “You’re not Brittany. You don’t get those perks.”

“Like I’d want them,” Quinn growls, punching up again. Santana feels a severely unwelcome burst of heat in her gut at the contact and rocks back in return, watching as Quinn’s eyelids close for a second.

“Hey, is that why you’ve been following me around?” she mocks, leaning forward until her body blankets Quinn’s prone form almost entirely. “You feeling lonely, Fabray? You want a little _fun_ before you go back to the bottom of the heap?”

She rolls her hips, fully aware of how much Quinn can feel through her hiked-up skirt. The blonde’s eyes flicker, her mouth thinning out.  
“Get the fuck off of me,” she hisses. Santana holds on tighter and grinds down again, grinning.

“You thought you could get inside my head,” she says triumphantly, moving low and pressing her mouth against Quinn’s ear. “You thought you could fuck with me. Babe, you’ve been fucking with the _wrong_ girl.”

Quinn makes a noise, somewhere between pissed off and frantic, like she’s only just realized they’re in an abandoned library. Abandoned as in ‘no one to save your round white ass when it's pinned to a table’. Abandoned as in ‘at Santana’s mercy’. Abandoned as in ‘how do _you_ like it, bitch’.

“I’m the best,” Santana whispers throatily, not entirely sure why she’s enjoying this so much. “I’m the top. Always. Don’t fucking forget it.”

She pulls back just enough to look Quinn in the eyes, to show her the full force of what she’s facing down. The blonde stares back, stony, trapped.

“It won’t last,” she says softly. “You know it won’t.”

Santana laughs right in her face, delighting in the all too compromising position. Quinn _isn’t_ Brittany, and she isn’t Puck, and she isn’t Finn—she is the one person in this school who has ever held Santana down for even a minute longer than her liking. She is the one person who has ever locked Santana into a box, and now? With the roles reversed in such a deliciously literal way?

“I’m the top,” Santana repeats, relishing the words and the way Quinn tilts her head up almost defiantly to meet them, until her pink, torn lips are barely brushing Santana’s. “You know what that makes you, Fabray?

“My bottom.”

She claims the girl’s mouth, possessive and fierce, tonguing roughly into wet heat the second Quinn responds with a low cry. This isn’t what she’d planned on—in fact, she’s never really thought of this particular concept before—but it strikes her now that it is _perfect_. What better way to prove her superiority than to take Quinn like this, to hold her down and show her exactly how much stronger Santana is, how much hotter, how much more _in control_?

She feels the heave of Quinn’s breasts as the girl tries to breathe around the assault, and it strikes her that the blonde is actually retaliating, her own tongue winding around Santana’s in the mother of all struggles. Her hands are searching, trying to find a way out from between their bodies; without thinking, Santana sinks her teeth into the girl’s lower lip and releases the front of her shirt. Grabbing both wrists, she pins them above Quinn’s head with one hand and growls deep in her throat.

The blonde arches her back, squirming as Santana rips her mouth away and licks a hot, violent stripe down the side of her neck. She scrapes her teeth along soft skin, digs her nails into the girl’s wrists, feels the futile scramble of Quinn’s fingers against air. She lifts her head enough to grin, meeting Quinn’s already-hazy eyes, and rolling her pelvis.

Quinn’s skirt, already fairly indecent across her hips, slides higher. Her legs wrap instinctively around Santana’s body, her heels pushing her closer as she groans, and Santana already knows she has won. Quinn isn’t giving up—Quinn _never_ gives up—but she certainly feels like she’s giving in, and that’s all Santana needs to know. She finds the juncture of neck and shoulder and bites down, savoring the hiss of air that pumps from Quinn’s lips before she moves to suck heartily upon the blonde’s collarbone. Her free hand winds down, slipping between the uniform and pale, velvet skin, pressing firmly down upon abs that apparently haven’t _quite_ returned to their previous glory yet. Quinn’s lip curls as Santana strokes, memorizing the last vestiges of the complete crumbling downfall that was last year. Memorizing the very thing that made this all possible to begin with.

It feels strange, wanting to thank an infant, but without baby Beth in the picture, Santana would still be reading the lines meant for right-hand man. The pregnancy is to blame. The pregnancy gave her a shot.

_Thank God for teenage hormones._

She presses lower, sliding the skirt all the way up and moving a hand against Quinn’s sex. The blonde’s hips jerk, her mouth opening in a soundless wail, and Santana doesn’t see a point in waiting. Teasing is foreplay. Foreplay is for pleasure.

This is proving a point.

Not that it’s not leading to pleasure—she has to admit Quinn feels pretty damn good under her thumb, twitching and grinding like a madwoman. Holding the girl in place, Santana moves her hand just right and smirks when Quinn’s legs clamp around her, then spread apart, like she’s trying to yank Santana in.

If the bitch wants it so bad, maybe a little teasing wouldn’t be such an awful idea.

She hesitates, trailing light circles around the entrance Quinn is so desperately trying to force her into, biting her lip with mock shyness. Quinn’s eyes snap open, glaring like she wants to burn Santana on the spot.

“Do it,” she growls. Santana shakes her head.

“Look at you,” she taunts, unable to stop a bit of affection from bleeding in. “Writhing around like a little whore. Honestly, Q, you really should learn from your mistakes. Isn’t this what got you into such trouble before?”

It’s a mark of Quinn’s strength of character—whatever of it she’s got left after Puck stripped so much away—that she does not reply with words. She simply lifts her chin and halts the progress of her hips against Santana’s hand, still glaring.

They sit like that for a long beat, Santana lightly pressed against Quinn, Quinn trying to pretend it isn’t driving her completely insane. It’s impressive, Santana thinks. Even Brittany would be keening and begging by now.

If Quinn’s not going to play the part, Santana thinks with a shrug, she might as well do this. Teasing isn’t the only way to show what she’s got; fucking the blonde well into next week will probably be just as beneficial in the long run.

She thrusts in, rough and fast, and Quinn’s head snaps back on her neck. She doesn’t scream, which is probably for the best, given that they’re in a _library_ , but she certainly looks like she’s aching to. It’s enough for Santana, who finds herself panting as she rocks in and out, squeezing Quinn’s wrists with her free hand until bruises begin to bloom against pristine skin.

This is good. This is _great_. Forget punching the girl’s face in; making her moan and squirm like this is _exactly_ what Santana’s been looking for.

It doesn’t take long at all for Quinn’s mouth to drop open; Santana covers it quickly with her own, stifling the whimpering and drinking in the sounds of Quinn’s collapse. She pulls her hand free, wiping it on Quinn’s skirt and smirking.

“I told you,” she begins cockily, “you never mess with—“

She doesn’t have time to finish; Quinn is somehow up and off the table, throwing her full weight into Santana and sending them both careening into the nearest bookshelf. Several hardcovers leap to their doom, sounding more or less like tiny explosions as they go, but Santana can’t bring herself to care. Quinn flattens them both against the shelves, hands wrenching the tie out of Santana’s hair as she smothers her with pounding kisses. Santana groans, pushing back, and before she knows it, they’re engaged in a wrestling match. Quinn pins her by the shoulders, tongue tracing patterns inside Santana’s mouth just in time to get whipping backwards into the opposite shelf, held fast by strong hands on her hips, top pushed up under her breasts as Santana works to find footing.

It’s a damn good thing McKinley isn’t known for its academic prowess, because she’s pretty sure this would end in expulsion or jail time. Books are _everywhere_ ; she trips over one as she powers Quinn backwards, palming one breast and biting forcefully on the blonde’s earlobe. Quinn rotates them both, slamming Santana into metal; Santana muffles her howl of pain in Quinn’s shoulder.

“ _Fuck_ , Fabray.”

“Shut up,” Quinn manages, kissing her and kissing her until Santana can’t remember what it feels like to breathe like a normal human being. She loses herself completely in the slip-slide of lips against her own, in the tango that is _them_ , heated and furious.

By the time she realizes Quinn has dropped to her knees and is lifting Santana’s skirt, the dark-haired girl is too far gone to give a singular shit about power or being on top. She’s vibrating with energy, as desperate as Quinn looked on that table, and when blonde hair disappears under that red skirt, she can’t stop herself from moaning. She feels the first brush of Quinn’s mouth, the curl of her fingers yanking down that final barrier, and holy _shit_ , this is better than fighting. This is better than _anything_.

She reaches up blindly, grasping the side of the shelf to keep balance, pumping her hips in time with Quinn’s distressingly-talented tongue, and she would be genuinely curious as to how the blonde is so _good_ at this if not for the fact that—

“Shit, oh God, oh _fuck_ —“

Nails bite into her thigh; Quinn’s way of shutting her up again even as she hums a frantic note and laps fervently while Santana comes apart.

She sags against the bookshelf, fumbling for Quinn’s ponytail and dragging her to a standing position. Eyes heavy with exhaustion, she searches for that familiar bitchtastic expression: the eyebrow, the cocky snap of one hip, the smirk.

Instead, she sees Quinn; not old-school Quinn Fabray, the girl who’s been stalking her to the point of insanity since school started, but _Quinn_. The girl who spent last year sitting alone in corners, her nose buried in books, one hand splayed protectively across her rounding stomach. The girl who was exactly that: just a girl.

Quinn is looking at her, rubbing evidence of what they’ve just done off her chin, like she fully expects this to be another thing Santana uses to pin her to the proverbial table. Santana fucked her because it served a purpose; _Quinn_ just did what she did…why?

Because she wanted to?

Santana looks at the girl, and every ounce of anger she’s been carrying slowly slides away, replaced by the regretful understanding that this is her best friend. An idiot, sure, and _definitely_ an asshole at times, but still—best friend.

It means something.

And though Santana _hates_ her more than words can say over half the time, she can’t deny that there’s something heart-wrenching about the way Quinn is looking at her now.

She sighs. “You’re an ass.”

“And you’re a bitch,” Quinn replies soundly. Santana shakes her head ruefully, fingers already scraping black hair into its rightful ponytail again.

“You know I’m not giving up my slot.”

“And you know I’m not lying down and taking your shit,” Quinn retorts. “I’ve heard about the crap you pull at practice.”

Santana grins. “I think we just proved you’re pretty good at taking my shit, Fabray.”

The flash in those hazel eyes makes her stomach jump. “Oh really?” Quinn says, slowly beginning to smirk. “What—what was that?” She puts on a fake, gasping expression, eyes closed, back bowed. “ _Oh shit, oh God, oh_ —“

Santana punches her gamely in the shoulder. “Shut the fuck up.”

Quinn grins, adjusting her clothing reverently, and Santana thinks this might not be quite so terrible. They’re never going to be bosom buddies, cuddling and doing each other’s nails, supporting each other in every endeavor. That kind of sissy behavior should be left to Hummel and his sassy sidekick, not to the badasses responsible for keeping McKinley in line.

Santana Lopez is prime meat around here, and she fully intends to stay that way.

But she supposes, as they slip out of the library, winking at the baffled old woman behind the counter as they go, she could handle a partner in crime.

Just as long as Quinn remembers who’s on top.


End file.
